To Play the Game
by Felixthekatt
Summary: The sequel to "To Become Extraordinary". The Joker and his J have survived, and continue to wreck havoc. However, new challenges arise, and their bond is threatened by the presence of a new recruit, forcing J to reevaluate what she has become.
1. Chapter 1

_AU: I am so sorry for the long delay, but FINALLY, I had an idea for a sequel. This chapter is short, but I promise the next chapters will be much longer and more substantial…this just sets us up. _

_I'm really excited for this, as in To Become Extraordinary, I followed the basic plot of the Dark Knight, but this will be completely my own storyline. It will also be much more focused on the very twisted relationship of J and the Joker, where I have some very interesting developments planned._

_*-_________________________________-*_

The smoke hung heavy in the air, the echoes of the last shots still resonating.

The Joker and his J swung around wildly, arms still outstretched with a gun in each hand.

But there was no need. They were the only ones left standing. Everyone else was dead.

J collapsed weakly against the beam, giggling weakly. By some miracle, they had made it through. They had taken all comers-Gordon, Batman, the entire damned SWAT team- and they were still there fighting. It was a heady thought.

She laughed hysterically, enough that even the Joker was concerned.

He pulled her to her feet, and she leaned heavily against him. Almost immediately, he felt a warm stickiness through his shirt. Glancing down, he saw dark, thick blood.

J followed his eyes, and shook her head softly.

"It's nothing. Just got me through the shoulder" she said reassuringly.

He had taken enough shots, and inflicted enough, to know she was right, but he still had to get her somewhere safe and quiet so he could mend the wound enough so she wouldn't lose much more blood.

She laughed softly at his concerned expression, "Who so serious, Mr. Joker?"

He chuckled at her constant, unflagging nonsense, and set her gently down. With some amusement, he watched as she crawled towards 2 of the dead SWAT members, kama now back in her hands, and started working on stripping the body of its uniform and mask. He imitated her, taking the uniform of another officer.

Now dressed as a SWAT team, they worked their way slowly down the building. The Joker half carried, half dragged J as they went, as she became weaker and weaker from blood loss with every step. The Joker thanked every cosmic force in existence, as the scene was in such chaos, and so many officers either dead or pursuing whatever Harvey Dent was creating, no one noticed the two black figures in the shadows.

A few quick moments playing with wires, and he had them a car, but no place to go.

_We can't go back to our building. One of the stupid rats will have squealed by now., _he thought rapidly. Instead, he just drove as quickly as possible, and pulled into an alley a few miles away. Stopping quickly, he rustled in the glove compartment of the cop car for the first aid kit all policeman keep. He dabbed at the wound with some disinfectant, and took some rough thread in the kit to sew up the wound. J leaned back, looking completely relaxed throughout the process.

"So…I think we've played out this scene," J started weakly. Seeing his look of protest, she continued quickly, "We'll come back! I just thought it'd be funny to watch Gotham tear itself apart for a while…especially while Harvey Dent is misbehaving. We'll keep ourselves entertained somewhere…New York, Rome, wherever. And when Gotham has itself a nice sense of security, we can return. We'll need to spend some time recruiting and rebuilding anyway."

Her idea did have some merit. They couldn't go anywhere in Gotham now. And if they disappeared for a little…Batman may think J _had_ died, and would assume the Joker had fled with her body in grief.

Interesting.

"_How do you feel about London?"_ he asked, and grinned madly.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been ridiculously easy.

J had expected to roll a few more heads to get out of Gotham, but all the Joker had done was throw some dollars around, and the poor soul in charge of loading the cargo plane had let them right on. They would take this plane to Mexico, where security was far more lax, then pay off (or kill off, whichever was easier) another poor soul to get to England.

She was excited. She hadn't ever been out of the country before. And the major organized crime in London was supposed to be top notch, second only to the true Italian mafia. It would be fun to crush them under her high heeled shoe. So she ignored the stinging pain from the crudely mended shoulder, and bounced on the balls of her feet, humming lightly.

The Joker was, as always, amused. She always saw the bright side of life. He, for once, was oddly still. Crouched down and sitting back on his heels, he was twirling his knife idly in his hands, contemplating their next step. He was slightly annoyed that he hadn't thought of London first…it was a brilliant idea. With so many tensions and constant presence of immigrants, another explosion wouldn't even cause a beep on their radars.

Well, he'd just have to get their notice with a very big explosion.

***********________________________**************************

Gordon roared in frustration. Batman, while equally furious, was silent.

He eyed Gordon warily. He had been through a lot that night: the ferry incident, the Joker's threats, his family threatened, Harvey Dent dead…

Batman shook the thought out of his head. He wasn't ready to think about that quite yet. Focusing back on Gordon, he began to wonder if the poor older man had finally reached hysteria.

"Gone! GONE!" Gordon shouted, spittle flying out of his mouth, "How could that maniac escape?! How did you let him escape?"

Batman winced involuntarily. It was no more than what he was thinking himself, but to hear it from the lieutenant's mouth made it more real.

"I don't know how he escaped. I left him tethered," Batman rasped quietly, "He probably waited till the SWAT team arrived and pulled him in, then he overpowered them somehow."

"Overpowered them? How could he have possibly overpowered a dozen armed SWAT?" Gordon screamed.

_Yes, very close to hysterical_ Batman thought.

Gordon took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and figure out a way to help the situation.

"And the girl. You're sure she's dead?" he asked, calmer than before.

Batman hesitated a long moment before answering, "I-I can't be sure. Her skull clanked pretty hard, and she collapsed. The Joker certainly thought she was. He may have been fighting on pure grief when he took on the SWAT team, then made off with her body. Or-"

"Or she's still alive." Gordon finished. He sighed, long and hard, "Either way, they're long gone now. We can only wait and see what they do next."

(A/N...I'm sorry for the delay! My life is a bit calmer now, so I'll be able to update much more often. I apologize for the short chapter, I needed one more small one to set the stage...I promsie the next one will be much bigger and action packed...Trust me, I have a lot of ideas for this one!)


	3. Chapter 3

England had proven better than either of their dreams. J had been inspired by the book _Hannibal_, in which Hannibal Lector stays in a hotel next to a plastic surgery unit, and spends his time luxuriously enjoying the amenities of the hotel while wrapping his face like every other visitor and avoiding detection. Instead of a plastic surgery center, they settled down in a little hostel down the street from Morriston Hospital, one of the nation's leading scar and burn treatment centers.

Without the Joker's makeup, they each looked like everyone else nearby. Everyone they past just assumed they were the victims of some terrible accident, and like so many others in the vicinity, seeking treatment at the renowned hospital.

The Joker was surprised how much he enjoyed their newfound freedom. No more hiding during the day, no more endless security. He reveled in being able to walk alone in the daylight, loved going from shop to shop with J, without having to hold a gun to the shopkeepers' heads. It was a nice little vacation. And it made it much easier to examine the potential of the area stealthily, without arising suspicion.

And this little neighborhood they had settled in had proven to be most entertaining. It was middle to upper-middle class, but inhabited by people who came to money through "odd" means. Families who had grown up poor, had no real occupation, yet somehow lived most comfortably recently. In short, it was the center of a growing organized crime community. A lucky coincidence.

Until now, the neighborhood regarded them with irritated acceptance, as common newlyweds who had the unfortunate fate of being in some sort of terrible, disfiguring mishap. The neighbors had some sympathy for them, but thought they were a hindrance in their families' "work". The Joker had decided it was time to rid them of this comforting notion, and make their presence known for what they truly were.

And he had decided J was the best one to make that announcement.

He had scouted out the local nightlife, tipping bartenders, servers, and entertainers substantially and quietly. They gave him all the information he needed, though they eyed his scars cautiously.

There was a "gentleman's club" a few courteous blocks away from the neighborhood. It wasn't a nice enough establishment to attract the main heads of the crime families, but it did attract their sons. One in particular, according to a leggy redhead named Sherry, was the son of Vincent Cosiello, the meanest and scariest crime lord. He came several days a week, got grabby with the dancers, often leaving bruises and laughed when they struggled. As a Cosiello, he was beyond reproach.

The Joker had smiled grimly at Sherry's report.

"What's his type?" he asked.

"The usual. Tall, big boobs…but he likes the goth, dominatrix look. He says it's more fun to hurt them." She spat with disgust.

He had to laugh. It was too easy.

"I think I know just the girl for him. How much would it take for you to let my little friend take your set?"

Sherry eyed him carefully.

"You're serious? Heck, if I can get out of dancing for that bastard, your friend can have my set for free."

The Joker slipped her cash anyway. It wouldn't do to have her talking, and she had been rather helpful. And could be useful later.

**************************-------------*****************************

"I love London!" J said wildly, laughing hysterically as she adjusted her costume.

The Joker grinned, watching her as she twirled.

She had taken to heart Sherry's description. Dressed skimpily in a vinyl set, exposing just about everything, she was just Cosiello's type. Under the lights of the strip club, her scars weren't even visible until she was extremely close. Not taking any chances, J carefully adjusted a leather mask to her face, covering the scars that had healed to silvery white streaks. She cracked a riding crop against her thigh, and turned, smiling.

"What do you think baby?" she asked, pouting in a mock-sexy pose.

"Delicious." He answered, "Now remember. You have to get him in the private rooms. Disable the cameras…"

"I know I know," she interrupted, rolling her eyes. "I need to make him think he's getting more action than any stripper would give. I know what I'm doing." And she turned and strode off toward the club's back entrance.

He could only shake his head, and go through the customer entrance, where he took a seat far in the back, away from the stage, near the bar. He allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the black lights, then scanned the crowd quickly. There was the slimy bastard, with a burly bodyguard next to him. Balding at twenty-something, hanging on the stage, trying to grope the stripper while clutching a single pound. The stripper struggled, finally managing to slip away, and ran off the stage. Cosiello howled after her, annoyed he had missed out on his toy.

He had no idea what he was in for.

The opening beats of Muse's "Time Is Running Out" came over the speaker, odd against the constant poppy tunes that the other girls used. J stepped out confidently, moving with the music. She had amazing rhythm and grace. And the years of martial arts gave her a freakish amount of flexibility. And after all the tanned blondes, J stuck out as something exotic and powerful.

Cosiello never had a prayer.

He couldn't even act like his normal piggish self. His jaw hung open, like a cartoon, and he gaped openly. J of course encouraged this, acting as if she was dancing for him alone. When he reached out nervously, offering his pathetic bills, J smirked, and smacked him with the crop. He leapt back and stared, shocked and confused.

J finished the song, and hopped off the stage gracefully to work the floor. Cosiello immediately sent his guard after her to bring her to the private room.

The Joker laughed openly, causing a few people to turn and stare, and he happily ordered a brandy.

*********_______________________________**********************

The guy was even more disgusting than she had expected. His piggy hands came reaching out for her, and she kept snapping at him with the crop, softly whispering "Later" in his ear.

J shoved him into the little private room, pushing him into the dirty chair. Stepping up on the chair, with her pointy shoe very close to his groin, she disabled the security camera quickly, knowing the managers and bouncers rarely ever glanced at the security cameras.

She settled down, sitting in his lap.

"There now baby. Now we're all alone and can do whatever you want." She said silkily.

His hands ran over her, so obsessed with her body he never noticed her free hand moving inside her tall boots, pulling out the sharp little harpy. His hands were just gliding over her hips when she slit the blade once, twice across his throat. His hands flailed as the blood sprayed over her.

***************___________________________*********************

The Joker saw the burly guard looking over to the private room. The big man checked his watch, then started to walk over to the velvet roped area. Off his seat quickly, the Joker raced over to him. As the man reached to pull aside the little room's curtain, the Joker grabbed him, spun him into the room next to it, and before the bigger man could react, stabbed him repeatedly in the back. The guard flopped to the floor, his eyes huge and sightless.

Giggling to himself, the Joker opened the curtained partition between the two little rooms.

J was giggling too, wiping blood of her face and chest.

Laughing, the Joker pulled out two playing cards, a Joker and a Queen. He placed the Queen in the dead man's mouth, and the Joker into his still twitching hand.

The Joker card had small, uneven writing on it, that simply said "We've arrived."


	4. Chapter 4

David Kirkwood felt very much like banging his head into his desk.

He used to have a nice, relatively quiet job. As chief constable of the territory, the region had little crime. Kirkwood was not naïve; he knew that the little number of offenses was due to the very strong organized crime presence, which wanted crime out of their neighborhoods to keep the police out of their homes.

He had enjoyed an easy career, with a smooth progression through the ranks. Easy transitions, plentiful recognition-he loved his job.

Then suddenly, his whole happy world had come crashing down.

Out of nowhere, a rash of vicious, brutal murders spread through his territory. Because the victims had predominantly been the sons of major crime lords, Kirkwood had first assumed them to be the result of some sort of mob war. But the way in which they were murdered (one had been stabbed with a series of knives while playing polo. While the turf had been splattered with blood, and his body found stuck with knives in all of his major organs in alphabetical order, his pony was not the least bit harmed. In fact, someone had taken the liberty to loosen his saddle and remove the bridle, allowing the gelding to graze until police arrived) suggested it was something else entirely.

His next thought was a vigilante. But vigilantes rarely got so violent, and rarely left calling cards.

Cards. Two of them, in fact.

And god knows how this killer managed to keep _everyone_ quiet.

Kirkwood had thought he had managed to find a lead, when the manager of the strip club where Cosiello had been killed told him that a dancer named "Sherry" had been set to be on stage a few minutes before the murder happened, but she hadn't shown up.

After a lot of persuading, Sherry finally answered his questions. No, she hadn't worked that night. She had been feeling fat, and took the night off to treat herself shopping. The local Top Shop security tape confirmed her alibi, showing her clearly in line holding a monstrous pile of skirts and jackets.

Other customers swore they saw a tall, black-haired girl take Cosiello into the backrooms, but no dancer at the club fit that description, and of course the cameras weren't functioning.

He had the vague notion that he was chasing some sort of ghost, because there was no trail. Not even a fingerprint on the damned calling cards.

He was just about to call it a night and reach for the bottle of brandy in his desk drawer, when his phone's shrill rang broke him out of her reverie.

"Constable Kirkwood".

"Constable, this is Commissioner Gordon from Gotham PD over in the States. " said a brisk, slightly grim voice.

Surprised, Kirkwood answered, "How can I help you Gordon?"

"We have been chasing a pair of criminals for months, but they managed to escape, and we think they may have jumped across the pond."

Kirkwood sighed. Another pair of thieves to hunt down. Unless the mob took care of them first.

"What can you tell me?" he asked in a bored tone, taking out his notepad and pen.

"They're a couple. The man has severe facial scarring, but usually wears clown's makeup. He calls himself the Joker"

Kirkwood froze, all color draining from his face.

"The woman also has severe facial scarring," Gordon continued, unaware of the effect of his words, "but doesn't bother to cover it. Long black hair. Her name is Janna Dunbar, but she usually goes by only J now. They're both always heavily armed, and very dangerous."

Kirkwood tried to swallow the giant lump in his throat, "You say…they're murderers?"

A long pause.

"I thought I had made myself clear, I apologize," Gordon said slowly, as if speaking to someone with mental disabilities, "They are rampant killers and arsonists. They have killed many, many people, and have no care who it is. Competing crime bosses, police officers, civilians…and whatever you do, don't underestimate the woman. She's killed some of our best officers."

"T-the Joker, you said?" Kirkwood cursed himself, for his voice cracked pathetically.

"YES, sir, the Joker," Gordon replied firmly.

Kirkwood took a long, steadying breath.

"Then they've already struck. I'm going to need everything you can give me so I can catch them".


	5. Chapter 5

J returned his kisses eagerly, moaning aloud as he shoved her against the wall, grabbing her wrists and forcing them over her head. He tore off her thin shirt, tossing it eagerly on the floor, and growled as he nipped at her exposed neck. He released her wrists to glide his hands over her now naked curves, and she took the opportunity to tangle her hands in his hair. He snarled and slapped her lightly, causing J to whimper in impatience. Laughing slightly at her eagerness, he tugged down the tight pants she always wore, pulled her form to him, only to toss her unceremoniously on the bed.

J looked up at him with unabashed want, and she scrambled to kneel on the bed to help him get out of his own clothes more quickly. When finally, the last garment was unbuttoned and tossed, she yanked his body against hers, pulling him down to lay on top of her. They kissed deeply as she wrapped her long, oddly strong legs around him, holding him tight against her.

But the kiss changed somehow. He always kissed hard, voraciously, but now he kissed so hard she could feel her lips bruising, even now swelling against him. He bit at her sharply, and she whimpered in surprise as she felt the blood sink into her own mouth, and turned her head away.

Growling again, he tore away from her. She tried quickly to sit up, but he shoved her roughly down, as he reached into the nightstand for the little, razor sharp switch blade he always kept handy.

Looking up at him, with his eyes snapping and his face set in a furious line, J felt a tingle of fear. They always played a little rough. Pain, bloodplay, power struggles-all a regular part of their usual sexual routine, but it was always tempered by their typical playfulness. None of that playfulness existed now. She was greatly reminded that there was a reason that the Joker was one of the most feared criminals.

He pressed himself against her, plunging into her without preparation or warning. She cried out, biting the insides of her mouth to stop the tears the sudden pain caused. She tried to lessen the pain and attempted to move with him, raising her hips to meet his, but as she did, he snarled and yanked her hair to hold her still.

She yelped again, and felt the knife slit the soft skin of her side. She gasped in shock, knowing from the burning pain the cut was deeper than the shallow, superficial cuts they usually did. There was no stopping the tears now, as she felt the knife continue to cut its way down.

"Stop! Stop it!" she cried.

But the knife only cut deeper still.

"PLEASE! Please stop!" she screamed, and boxed her hand into his ear, throwing him off balance. As his weight twisted to the side, she took her chance to throw him off of her, Struggling for breath and beginning to feel dizzy, she could only stare at him in horror and shock, trying to apply pressure to the wound as the blood oozed over her hands and into the sheets.

***********_____________********----------

The Joker huddled alone in the corner, sitting back on his heels, twirling the little knife absentmindedly in his hands.

When she had thrown him off, and he had looked down at her bleeding profusely on the bed, he had felt that odd, awful jolt again.

He didn't know what had gotten into him. At first, it was their usual, fun play. But midway through, he had just felt that aggression and adrenaline surge, and everything had gone wrong…

That awful jolt had knocked some presence of mind back into him, and he had scrambled to get some thread and cloth to use as a bandage. His hands shaking, he hastily stitched her side, as she panted in pain. He managed to stop the bleeding, applying the bandages tightly.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but the words wouldn't come. When he was done his work, he could only lay her down. Her eyes were slightly glazed, and she quickly fell asleep, exhausted from the loss of blood and the shock.

And now he was alone in the next room, feeling miserable guilt overcome him. He couldn't figure out why he had done that, couldn't identify where that terrible urge had come from.

Even now, he felt that same rage and impatience throbbing in him. The same feelings that had made him puncture his side urged him now to put his hand through the wall.

It was…frustration. No, not quite that. Restlessness maybe? Boredom, but inflamed with his constant desire for destruction.

It had just all been so _easy. _

London had so much promise once. They had started with a bang. Then it all was just too simple. The crime lords, so grief stricken with the loss of their sons and stunned at how easily they had been killed, caved easily to his will. They would put up no more fight now.

Recruiting had even been a pathetic pursuit. Normally it entertained him to torture and provoke the hustling little peons who tried to join him, but this English bunch was a stubborn, stiff sort. They didn't respond to his prods (literal and physical), and responded stoically when he killed friends in front of them, accepting it as a way of the world.

It was really most disappointing.

There was no challenge. It was nothing new. It reminded him of his days as a common thief, and how bored and angry he had been…before the Bat had appeared.

The Joker missed Batman profusely.

But it was no excuse to slit up the one bright spot in this whole English gloom.

But somehow...he found himself… annoyed …with her. He adored her still, on most occasions, but every now and again, he felt this raging annoyance. but he couldn't explain _why._

He shook his head angrily, shaking his long hair into his face.

He just wanted some damned excitement already.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been a few days since the Joker had cut her like a life-size voodoo doll, and J still felt sore and weak. She had to be careful not to move too much, or the wound reopened. So she spent most of her time in bed, or cautiously puttering around the little flat.

The night after, she had been lying quietly, trying to read, when he had come in. He had reached for her, his eyes black, and unconsciously she flinched. The instant she did, J wished she could take it back; a shadow had flitted over his face, and his hand jolted back as if he had been burned.

Since then, awkward silence hung in the flat until it was almost tangible. J wanted to speak to him, cling to him, ask him what the hell had happened, but the words stuck in her throat, and after a while, the silence was too severe to interrupt with her questions.

Gone was the goofy, insane banter and laughter. He was oddly calm, and with the Joker, a lack of laughing insults and jitters was a very bad sign. She was filled with a constant panic, though she couldn't quite place why.

She just had a very bad feeling about this.

***__________________******__________

The Joker felt like his skin was crawling, and at times, it felt like something was inside him, trying to claw its way out. Maybe something with horns. Maybe scales. Hell, it could be the jolly green giant for all he knew. Constantly restless, constantly adrenaline pumping through is veins, he craved _something_.

He left the flat soundlessly, slipping into the night, beginning the walk to the club that had become his favorite place to scheme and connive. With the neighborhood's strong crime reputation, the police never came here. The club owner, and the bartenders, knew the Joker was responsible for the deaths of much of the mob, so they fled, leaving the Joker and his thugs to themselves. About damned time he could get some decent food…as long as it was fish and chips. He had enough freaking breaded cod to last several lifetimes.

He walked into the club quietly, instinctively scanning the room. To the left, his thugs huddled together, hounding some waitress who looked like she was very much debating making a run for it. To the right, a few young customers, young guys in their twenties trying to be cool hanging out at a mob bar. There was a lone figure directly in front of his line of vision. The figure had her back to him, apparently perusing the scanty music selection.

The Joker decided to not join his men right away, standing away from them all. The frat boy-looking guys were eyeing his thugs up, as if they wanted to prove their toughness with a tussle with real criminals. Silly mistake. But it would be funny to watch.

The Joker laughed at the thought, loudly and without inhibition, the first time he had laughed since the night he had ripped J open. And for him, a few days without laughing was more than a lifetime.

He was suddenly aware of eyes on him. His boys knew better than to stare; they learned quickly, or they were dead. And it wasn't the frat boys. They had wisely adverted their eyes from his makeup, apparently taking it as a bad omen. Maybe they did have a full brain between them. No, it was the figure by the turntables.

She was slight, maybe an inch or two over five feet, but with soft curves. Bright blond hair, too blonde to be natural, elaborately teased and curled. Her skin was pale, even by English standards, and it only enhanced her delicate features. With a chuckle, he realized her lips had been painted jet black. In a place where every other girl did the stereotypical porn star beige-ish lips, it was enough to set her apart. Her big eyes bore into him, and when he glared back, she didn't look away.

Still chuckling to himself, he turned away but he felt a lightness he hadn't felt in days. He was aware of the figure coming suddenly beside him, and cocking his head, he turned to face the little blonde, fully expecting her to run away.

" 'ello there sugah, " she said simply.

He raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing

"You're the Joker?" she asked. Still, he said nothing, only smiled. She nodded knowingly at this.

"I hear you're the big man on campus. They tell me you're the man I _need_ to meet." Every possible innuendo dripped from her words, and he felt confused. His time with J hadn't made him forget his own appearance, and that a normal reaction for women was to run screaming into the night…possibly while flailing.

So he did the only thing he knew how, even though what she said wasn't funny or even remotely clever: he laughed, insanely and madly.

"What's your name blondie?" he asked, suddenly deciding that he…enjoyed…her for making him laugh.

"Whatever you want it to be puddin," she answered pertly.

He paused for a long moment, and finally decided that, while he was amused by her, he didn't like her complete lack of fear. He grabbed her roughly by the throat, constructing her windpipe. She gasped a little in shock, but recovered swiftly, just smiled and clutched at the gloved hand around her throat. He released her, shoving her a little. She just rubbed at the skin, where the red marks of his hands had clearly left a mark, and smiled up at him.

"Fine, fine…you win. I'm Harley Quinn."


	7. Chapter 7

**_I'm so sorry for the long delay! A mixture of school, work, and holidays held me up. But now I should have plenty of time to pump out the updates. Though I have to say, I'm starting to get nervous. There seems to be not too many people reviewing; doe sthat mean peopel hate it?_**

**_The more reviews, the more motivated I am! Shameless, I know, but there it is._**

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J knew something was very wrong indeed. The Joker's glee, and his distinctive, high-pitched laugh, had returned, but not because of any efforts by her. In fact, she only heard the laugh when he was in another room, laughing and chuckling to himself over something amusing that existed only in his mind.

That knot in her stomach grew bigger every day, as he disappeared more and more frequently, never returning until the sun was rising, with a large grin on his face, and nothing but silence for her.

J cursed the heavy wound in her side. She would have followed him, chased and begged him, much sooner if the pain had subsided even a little. As it was, it still pestered her if she moved too quickly. She had been stuck for over a week while he ran amuck, alone, sitting in bed, going insane with worry and that growing knot of fear.

She heard him moving about, getting ready to leave. Again.

Summoning her voice, and her courage, she called to him.

"Where you going love?' It took a great deal of effort to keep her tone light.

He paused for a moment. J heard him hovering in the doorway.

"Out", he answered, and he was gone.

Yes, very wrong.

She had to act. She couldn't wait any longer for her side to heal. J was not stupid. She knew that more relied on her guts tonight than just her love life; if the Joker was done with her, J knew he wouldn't dismiss her with a kiss on the cheek and a "good luck". If he had tired of her, her life was over as well.

Wincing with pain, she dragged herself out of bed, and with a great deal of effort, managed her way to the little closet. Dragging out the clothes he loved, fetish clothing of latex and leather, she set her mind to dress to kill. She wiggled into the tight pants easily; she had gotten a bit thinner with a week in bed. The latex corset she managed with some difficulty; the boning of the corset jutted into the stitched wound badly, but she bore the pain for the sake of looking good.

_It's all about looking cute _she thought grimly.

The futility of fighting imminent death with sexy clothing rang sharply in her mind, but one must fight with the weapons she is granted. And in this outfit, her appearance would certainly be a weapon.

She armed herself carefully. Her signature kamas hung at either side, a knife tucked at the ankle. She swung a long black jacket. It was unnecessary, the weather was cool but refreshing, but some appearance of discretion was imperative.

She walked slowly out of the flat, and contemplated where the heck she was going. She didn't know for sure where he went. He could be anywhere in London. But some small voice in her head told her to check the little hole-in-the-wall club a few blocks over. She set out carefully, walking in fluid, deliberate strides to minimize the pain in her side. A few thugs on the street catcalled to her, but the voices always stilled as she came closer, as they recognized her and realized their very dangerous mistake.

As she reached the club, she decided to enter the side door instead of the main one. She thought it wise to figure out her surroundings and the situation before making her presence known.

She entered quietly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim lights. One of her own thugs, stationed as a guard, started to her, but quickly backed away apologetically when he saw her face. More thugs in the corner, random patrons (young punks trying to be tough). And in the far, darkened corner, the faint light illuminated the white face of the Joker, seated and laughing. A little blonde, kneeling on the floor, draped over his lap, staring at him adoringly.

Dualing feelings inflamed J. The instinct of a wronged woman, green with fury, reared up. J's first instinct was to stalk over there, slit the blonde's throat, then take that same blade to the Joker and kill him for this. She actually took a step forward to do just that, blade discretely in hand under the cover of her coat, when the self-saving rational voice took over.

If she even made it over there before he noticed her, if she managed to kill the blonde, the thugs would be on her before she could complete the job. And there was no way anyone survived an attempt on the Joker's life.

She paused and mulled her next step, when one of the stupid drunks noticed her entrance and decided the situation for her.

"Hey scarface!" the man slurred, staggering slightly towards her place in the corner, "Don't worry little lady. Put a bag over your head, I'd still fuck you."

J was dimly aware that everyone's attention had turned to her now. Without thinking, she stepped forward and brought the kama to the man's neck in one smooth hack. The blade wasn't strong enough on it's own to cut cleanly through; it took two more cuts before the head came away cleanly. But she did it so quickly no one, the drunk included, had time to react. The head fell to the ground, the body still standing and jerking. Sliding off the long coat and using it to wipe the blade clean, J took two smooth steps and punted the head like a football.

It landed quite neatly right at the little blonde's feet.

The Joker eyed J up and down, smiling appreciatively and approvingly at her outfit, now splattered with blood, then glancing down at the sightless head, he threw his head back and laughed.

Smirking, J strode towards him, using that confident, feline walk he had always loved. Completely ignoring the little nymph at his feet who was staring at her with a mixture of shock and hate, J swung her leg over him, straddling him in his chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him forcefully.

Pulling away, she nipped at him playfully.

"Baby, that mean 'ol drunk got me all dirty. Want to come home and help me get clean?" She smiled broadly, a smile made more sinister (and to him more appealing) by the scars that marred her face.

He grinned in return, and nodded.

He lifted her with him as he stood, and he too ignored the little blonde.

"Clean up in here, will you?" he called to the still-staring thugs.

And J and the Joker strode out of the club, his arm loosely over her shoulder, leaving Harley Quinn to gape after them soundlessly.

J allowed the sharp feeling of relief to pour over her, but it was mixed with fear.

Yes, she had managed to regain his attention. But how long could she keep it?


	8. Chapter 8

The room was still dark, and all was quiet.

The Joker laid silently awake in the bed, with J curled up on his chest, her black hair strewn everywhere- a knotted, matted mess. The dim light from the street slipped in through the small windows, and illuminated the silvery white scars on her face, and highlighted the streaks of makeup that marred her skin.

It occurred to him, for the first time, how small she was. Awake, and in full dynamic motion, she appeared larger than life, with a forceful personality and presence. Quiet and still, she was so very delicate. She would kill him if she ever knew he thought of her as "delicate". If things ever got back to normal, he laughed to think about how he'd mention it to her.

But right now, all he could feel like is like a complete asshole.

He had seen her face when she walked into the club. The fury that mingled with betrayal, the pain that had flickered, ever so briefly, over her face.

He wanted to throw the stupid little blonde off of him, wanted to explain to J; explain how he felt insanely restless, how something was inside him clawing its way out.

How good it felt to make little Harley Quinn cower in terror.

But as always, he couldn't find the words. It stuck in his throat and made him feel like a dolt.

J never backed from anything, or anyone for that matter. The first time they met, when everyone else had cowered at that party, J had launched at him. And had never stopped since.

If he yelled at her, insulted her, she threw it right back. If he made the foolish mistake to hit her, she flew at him with freakishly strong blows (for god's sakes, she was 120 pounds! But she packed a hit like a guy named Bubba!)

She had never been afraid of him. That is, she was never afraid of him until that night when he had slit her side up good.

He hated himself for that, and didn't know how to fix it. He didn't know how to tell J that something in him yearned to dominate and terrorize and inflict pain. That urge had never been a problem before. But now the urge was building, stronger and stronger every day, and for the first time, someone he cared about was in the danger zone.

Harley, Harley was perfect to fill that place so J wouldn't get hurt. He could insult Harley. He would say awful things to her, and she would bite her lip and cry while he laughed. In fits of anger and boredom, he liked to surprise her with odd hits or slaps that would send her sprawling. She never failed to curl into a fetal position and whimper like a dog. It was very endearing.

Not that he had any illusions about Harley. The Joker knew her submission was not due to any quality of character or affection for him. He had long figured out that she was hiding from a small time thug ex-boyfriend (possibly actually named Bubba), and was attaching herself to the toughest dog to protect her. Which, he supposed, he would do. Because she played an important role that allowed him to expend his worst urges on her, rather than J. He could do thing to her J would have never withstood. But never, _never_, had he touched Harley in anything but violence. Indeed, he viewed her with too much contempt to even consider it. Hell, she called herself Harley Quinn and thought she was clever; that should have been the tip-off.

He wanted to tell J that, on the silent walk back to the flat. Somehow, he didn't think she'd believe him, or she wouldn't understand. Or maybe, she'd think his reasoning was worse. So the words died in his throat, and went unsaid.

And instead, as if to prove both her affection for him and her rage, J had vented everything into sex, ripping into him with such aggression that surprised even him. He had been willing, eager of course, but felt the twinge of guilt knowing he fueled her brutal passion by breaking her heart.

**************------------------*********************************

J lay quietly on the Joker's chest, breathing slowly as her thoughts swirled in her mind.

Even as she had kissed him, raked her nails down his back, bit and _hurt_ him, she had felt on the brink of horrible tears. At once, she had wanted to hit him, clutch at him, scream at him.

_What's going to happen to me?_ She thought miserably. She had him in her bed this night, but what about tomorrow? Next week? Next month? What would happen to her when he was once and for all bored with her?

Would she wake up one night to feel a knife sinking into the soft skin of her throat, or the cold metal of a gun to her temple?

There was no walking away from this. Either she was with the Joker, or she was dead. She knew this, and knew there was no other option.

The thought caused a constant river of terror through her. When she had taken his hand that one day in that moldy old building, she had never considered what would happen when he moved on. She cursed her stupidity in never thinking beyond the moment, never beyond feeling powerful and wanted _right now_.

And for the first time since that day when she had said goodbye to the life she had known, she felt regret.

**********************---------------------************************

The Joker traced small patterns on J's soft skin, skimming over her arm and back. She nuzzled a bit closer and kissed his neck softly, and settled herself back on his chest. Her fingernails mimicked his own movements, gliding over his chest rhythmically.

"You know, you were amazing. A fucking dynamo," the Joker told her, laughing a bit.

His voice was oddly loud and sudden in the darkness, but J recovered swiftly to giggle shyly.

"Well, I missed you. It's been too long," she answered, before she could stop herself.

The silence was at once thick and heavy. The Joker's insides twisted with guilt and shame, and he had the sudden urge to get up and get out of there. She had hinted to the real trouble between them, hinted, not said. The words hung in the air that neither would say, but they both came so close, so very close…

He swallowed hard, and forced himself to resume petting at her.

"Well," he started softly, "We'll just…keep it going, hm?"

She kissed his chest in answer.

They laid quietly in peace. Quiet was so rare for either of them, but they reveled in it then.

But that nagging fear wouldn't leave J. She felt like she could feel the cold blade at her throat now.

"S-so…who was the blonde?" she asked, quietly, but forcefully.

And all in a flash, that quiet moment was gone, along with the Joker that could hold her and care for her. And in his stead, was the Joker that was violent and cruel.

He shoved her away roughly, and swung himself out of the bed.

"So that's what your performance tonight was about" he spat at her as he pulled on his pants and shirt. "Just trying to dig for information, like a jealous little school girl."

J, true to form, rose to his harsh tone furiously.

"JEALOUS?! With that little twit laying all over you, of course-" she shrieked.

He dove at her, grabbing her face harshly in between his hands. His fingers dug into her skin roughly, causing what would be awful bruises later.

"I don't answer to you, do you hear me?" he rasped. "You have no hold over me. You are here because of my say-so. And you'll be gone as soon as I say to. Don't forget that, love".

He pushed her back onto the bed, and was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

The Joker walked furiously, purposefully, out of the little flat, back to the dank club that never seemed to close. Or maybe it was just conveniently open for creatures of the night like himself.

Very out of character, he strode through the main doors with no caution or discretion, ignoring the gaping stares of the lowlifes polishing off their last drinks.

"Brandy," He barked at the startled bartender. It was a young kid, barely 18, whose hands shook too much as he poured.

"Fuck it, just give me the bottle."

The kid handed it to him, (nearly damned dropped it) then scrambled to the other end of the bar to attend to non-existent customers. The entire bar stared in shock, and an uncommon silence hung in the room thick as smoke.

The Joker chugged from the bottle silently, grateful for its immediate warmth and how it steeled his nerves. No, he didn't drink much, but some occasions called for some stiff hard liquor. It was good too, top shelf quality.

He lifted the bottle for another swig, when the overwhelming smell of cheap perfume- like cotton candy- overcame him.

"So you didn't have much fun with that mean girl, puddin'?" purred the soft singsong voice of Harley Quinn.

"Oh no, we had plenty of fun. She knows how to play," he replied with a smirk, relishing in the way his words wiped the confident simper off her face. She was so _easy_ to hurt. "It's what happened after that's the problem."

Harley, wisely, was quiet for a moment. She wasn't the most intelligent of girls, but she had at last learned to speak carefully in front of him. She grinned suddenly, as if a brilliant thought had just occurred to her.

"Baby, you look so unhappy lately. Maybe you're just bored."

The Joker looked at her carefully. For once, the girl was on to something.

Cocking an eyebrow, he asked her, "What? You have some suggestions to keep me occupied?"

_God help her is she says anything sexual_ he thought with disgust, _does she really think I would touch her?_

There was an odd spark in Harley's eyes. Something victorious and smug. It lasted for only a moment, then disappeared.

"I was just thinking sugar," she drawled slowly, "Maybe England isn't your scene. Maybe it's time to call your vacation a day and cause some real havoc on the people who ran you across the pond."

He was startled. That wasn't what he had expected at all. He took another long swig of brandy, and mulled silently his options.

And never did he notice the pair of eyes that were intently staring at him across the room.


End file.
